


The Case for the Defence

by unbelievable2



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Gen, Sentinel Thursday Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-24 00:29:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1585085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unbelievable2/pseuds/unbelievable2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Interviews are always a nightmare....</p><p>A response to Sentinel Thursday Challenge #500, plus #34 and #141 (anthropology, police, senses, danger, memory)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case for the Defence

_What? It’s not this room? It’s always this room!_

Clear as day, there’s a notice pinned to the heavy oak door: “Dissertation Hearings will be in Culpepper”. 

_Culpepper? That’s where he had his first interview with the Chancellor. The old Chancellor, the one before the one before last. The nice one. They never use Culpepper. They never...._

Blair looks for a clock but there are no clocks. But he knows he is stupidly, seriously, suicidally late. How could this have happened? He’s known about the timetable, he’s always known about the timetable. So why has all this taken so long? Why are these papers he’s holding never complete? There’s always another one he needs to pick up.

But now he knows he has to get to Culpepper. It’s right across the building, the other side of Hargrove. In theory you can see the fountain from the windows, except the windows are mock-gothic, all little panes and cloudy glass, so actually that’s pretty difficult.

Blair pushes through crowds of faceless students and professors who throng the corridor, and feels panic roiling up in his stomach. All this could have been avoided if he’d only prepared enough; if he’d planned properly. People were counting on him; Jim would be counting on him. He knows even now it’s all going to be a failure, even before he gets to the Hearing. He’s not ready, they’re starting without him, his one chance at the doctorate is receding into the distance and all he can think about right now is that he really, really needs to go to the john, but there’s nowhere around here, and anyway, he can’t put down these papers; these papers that keep getting heavier and heavier and threaten to spill from his arms.

And then he’s there, in front of the door to Culpepper – equally heavy and oak. He taps and hears his name being called from within, so he pushes at the door, and he’s in the room, facing a long table and a row of people sitting behind it. There is a single chair facing them, about fifteen feet from the table, and he goes to sit on it, still clutching his papers. The chair seems tall, and he has to stretch and point his feet so that his lap is high enough to support his burden.

There is a pool of light around this chair alone, and by contrast the rest of the room seems dim – those gothic panes letting in little light from outside. He can see the same tall lamps at the back of the room that were glowing the day he met the nice old Chancellor. They are glowing now, but their illumination is so weak, and the light shining on Blair so strong, the faces of the people opposite him appear shadowed and obscure. Edwards is facing him, her face already hostile; next to her it looks like that old guy from the Physics department - what the hell is he doing here? And then there’s Eli Stoddard – at last a friendly face…. except Eli isn’t really looking at him directly. His eyes are averted and he looks uncomfortable. Then there are two people who Blair’s sure have died already, and then…

_… Ohmigod, it’s Jim! Jim’s here! Why is Jim here?_

The world is now a million times more incomprehensible than it was mere seconds ago. Why is Jim Ellison, resplendent in the full dress uniform of a US Army Ranger, sitting at Blair’s Dissertation Hearing? Did he need a character witness? 

But Jim looks hardly the person he would choose right now. His friend’s face is hard, cold; he’s not looking at Blair; he’s looking through him, not an ounce of fellow-feeling or affection on display.

Then Blair realises that Edwards is speaking.

“Mr Sandburg, are you ready to submit to questioning?”

Blair drags his gaze from the stony-faced Ellison to Edward’s waspish features.

“Yes, Ma’am. I should be happy to take any questions from the professors…”

He waits for Eli Stoddard, his mentor, to start the process, but Eli just looks away. Edwards smiles unpleasantly.

“There will be no debate with the professors, Mr Sandburg, until you have answered some very basic questions about your role at this University. Unless we are all content about the answers you give, there is no question of your dissertation being reviewed by the professors.”

The physics professor leans over the table towards him.

“My specialist area of study is the interpretation of infinity, Mr Sandburg. Tell me, have you contemplated infinity as part of the preparation for your dissertation? Infinity, as it might apply to its length, or the amount of time you have devoted to it and yet failed to finish, or indeed the multifarious subjects that you have considered as possible topics?”

Before Blair can frame an answer, the man leans back into the shadows again. Blair turns open-mouthed to the other occupants of the table, looking for some sign of support, of empathy. The dead professors say nothing, their faces getting vaguer with every passing moment. Jim hasn’t moved a muscle. Eli turns to Edwards and speaks:

“He was very promising, once. I felt he had a great future in Anthropology. But he became obsessed with the idea of Sentinels – individuals with enhanced senses who play a vital role in primitive societies. He wanted to prove they exist in the modern world as well. In a short time his work became solely focused on that quest for proof. If you look at all the dissertations he has submitted to us over the years, you will find that, whatever their title has been, this is always their subject.”

“Only one!” stutters Blair in protest. “I’ve only written one on the Sentinel and nobody even saw it!”

“Infinite numbers of dissertations,” intones the physics professor, leaning forward again, “and infinite longing to find the unfindable.”

“And it always ends the same,” continues Eli sadly. “He says he can prove their existence but he is incapable of bringing us that proof. And I’m afraid he is perfectly prepared to manufacture facts, to lie and to fail his friends, to keep his obsession alive.”

“That’s not true!” shouts Blair, getting up from the chair. His papers slip from his hands and scatter around his feet. “My research has been thorough. I _have_ found examples of such highly sensitive individuals. Sentinels _do_ exist and are found in our modern societies!”

He looks desperately at Jim for assistance, but Jim remains silent, his expression bitter and unhappy.

“And once again, this has been your dissertation subject, Mr Sandburg,” hisses the Chancellor. “But over this recent period we find that instead of devoting your time to university duties, you have persisted in haunting the police department in a desperate attempt to find your Sentinels there. What is it that draws you to such a place, Mr Sandburg? Do you feel that the closed ranks and closed minds of such an institution are a valid subject for anthropological research…?”

“You can’t say things like that about the PD…!” starts Blair. He spins around to Jim, but Jim’s just looking at him like it was Blair who said those words, not Edwards. He feels sick to his stomach, and the Chancellor’s next barb brings him up short.

“… or are you addicted to the danger that such work involves? You see, Mr Sandburg, to our eyes, it appears that your quest for the _adrenaline rush_ , as I believe it is called, has overtaken your legitimate interest in academic study. That in itself has the potential to nullify the work that you have applied to your dissertation, and hence any doctorate.”

It’s like a blow to the gut. Yes, it’s his weakness, just as pursuing Jim as his Sentinel was always his weakness, but now… surely now, it’s all different?

“It’s all different now,” he starts. Edwards raises a practised eyebrow.

“Or is it your perennial case of hero-worship that keeps you there? Against all indications that your attention is far from reciprocated?” She pointedly turns towards Jim, whose face is implacable. Blair feels utter, utter humiliation that his failings are exposed like this, for all to see; for Jim to see…..

“We need a defence witness,” continues Edwards.

Eli has already backed away, shaking his head. Blair looks in dread at Jim and sees no sign there that his friend will stand up for him now. He wants to cry.

“Call Sir Richard Burton,” says Edwards.

 _Yes, yes!_ thinks Blair. _Of course! He’s no more dead than the other professors here. He can tell them all how true this work is, how vital and pure and integral to human society, something modern civilisation has ignored to its great loss…._

“I am he.” The tones are deep and gravelly. A dark shape rises from a winged armchair at the rear of the room and advances. The man carries a mostly empty bottle of scotch and, when he steps into the light near Blair, his features are craggy and his eyes hooded and bloodshot.

“No, _no!_ ” howls Blair. “The explorer, _not_ the actor!”

The man stops suddenly, then rounds on Blair, swinging the bottle to punctuate his words.

“So you feel I am not the appropriate person to comment on your behaviour, my young friend? Well, let me tell you…”

He spins to face the table and addresses the occupants as well.

“Let me tell you, I am most particularly qualified to pass judgment here.”

“You’re not… you’re not…” begins Blair. Burton swings back again.

“An anthropologist? You speak the truth; quite so. But I know exactly what _you_ are. I have seen the light in your eyes, and it mirrors the light in mine when I was young, before I traded my culture and principles for what I was told people wanted. But it was all flim-flam. I now see it for what it was, and what was lost, and my heart is bitter from it. And so shall yours be.”

Blair stares at him, lost in the sadness of his words. Burton takes a drink from the bottle – a long draught, elegantly executed.

“And so, what is he?” asks Edwards impatiently.

“He is, madam, like me, a storyteller. A romancer, a writer, a poet, an artist, an actor, an obfuscator.”

“And a liar?”

“A man can lie in all those ways and more, madam. In his case, he has lied to keep the truth alive, and that lie will never let him go.”

Burton turns again to Blair, bows deeply and then is gone, Blair has no idea to where. All he can see now is a line of faces at the table, the only distinct ones belonging to Edwards and to Jim. He feels like his heart is tearing in two.

“And so, with that judgment,” continues Edwards, “I must now turn to you, Detective Ellison. You are aware of the character of Mr Sandburg. You have heard the facts today. Let me say, they speak very strongly against Mr Sandburg achieving his doctorate. But before we decide, l should like to ask you a question.”

Jim inclines his head to her but he is looking at Blair, though his expression gives nothing away.

“Tell me, Detective Ellison, should this Hearing decide against Mr Sandburg, would the Police Department continue to allow his participation in its work?”

Jim pauses for a moment. It’s enough to give Blair a desperate hope of salvation. It is, of course, pointless.

“That’s not the issue, ma’am. The fact is, I refuse to be let down any more. If Sandburg fails here today, he will no longer be my partner, and he will no longer be part of my life. That will effectively end his association with the Police Department.”

Edwards smiles her gratitude, rearranges her papers on the table and turns to face Blair.

“Mr Sandburg, your dissertation fails.”

Blair feels himself falling, falling off the chair onto the floor. He holds out a hand for help and Jim stands swiftly and walks towards him, but just as Blair topples, Jim walks right past him and out of the door, leaving Blair sprawled amongst his scattered papers. Blair’s heart breaks and the sobs rise up in him, choking and painful….

“Easy! Hey, easy, Chief!”

Blair takes a gasping breath and finds Jim on the floor beside him, holding him up. There are books and bits of paper everywhere. He looks at Jim, befuddled.

“I’m sorry, Chief, I shouldn’t have left you sleeping on the couch last night. You fell asleep reading all your notes, and I didn’t want to disturb you. But you’ve just been flailing around and ended up on the floor. I couldn’t catch you in time.”

“Why would you?” mumbles Blair and then realises that came out wrong. “I mean, why were you here anyway?” Jim is still frowning so Blair supposes that didn’t hit the mark either.

“I just came downstairs to make us some coffee. Thought we could steal a march on the day. You know, important stuff happening today. Want you to be in the right frame of mind.” Jim gives him an encouraging smile and Blair grunts his gratitude.

“Time?”

“Six-thirty.”

Jim looks a bit out of it as well, thinks Blair. Thankfully his waking brain is switching on more strongly now, and the dream memory is fading, though the dull ache of sadness is still in his middle, and something of the hopelessness must show in his eyes, as Jim is looking at him with real concern; how touching it is to see this, after the stone-face of the dream-Jim. Blair is helped back on to the couch and Jim brings him a steaming mug. Blair gratefully inhales the aroma.

“You were dreaming, yeah?”

Blair gives him a wry look.

“You could say that. All about the Dissertation Hearing. It was Edwards and a whole pile of dead people, I mean academics who’ve been dead for years, not murder victims – oh, and Sir Richard Burton. No, don’t look like that, this was the actor, not the explorer.”

Jim snorts into his own coffee.

“I always liked him in ‘Where Eagles Dare’.”

“Yeah, well, you would like that film. Anyway, he wasn’t too keen on me, for some reason. And they failed me.”

Jim looks stricken.

“Chief, don’t let that put you off your game! It’s just a dream. You’re worried about the outcome today, and it’s bound to come through in a bad dream like that.”

Blair considers him over his coffee. The difference between the man in the dream and the real Jim Ellison is so extreme, it seems laughable. And yet… they’ve been through so much and their friendship has twisted out of shape more than once. Why shouldn’t it happen again?

“It’s your subconscious playing tricks,” continues Jim earnestly.

“Damn straight,” replies Blair, and rubs his chest absently, trying to rid himself of that nagging pain.

“They’d be mad to turn you down! Idiots! Your new diss is a stunner. You are the brightest person on the campus, Chief, and they know it. You’ll be fine.”

“Thanks, Jim, but you don’t know university politics like I do, and anyway….”

He stops, realising he’s going into difficult terrain, but Jim has already caught him up.

“Chief, what is it? It’s not just the dream, is it? Not just Richard Burton?”

Blair looks at his coffee cup.

“Does this count as breakfast?” Jim looks bemused. “Only,” he continues, “there’s an old saying that if you tell a dream before you’ve had breakfast, it comes true.”

Jim nods sagely.

“There’s honey in that coffee. That counts as a breakfast food in my book.”

Blair screws up his eyes and plunges in.

“You were in the dream, Jim. I have no idea why. You were on the Hearing Board, and you said that if I failed, you wanted nothing more to do with me.”

Jim looks distraught.

“Oh Blair, I would never… you don’t think…? Oh hell, scratch that. I can see where your dream is coming from, Chief. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’ve put enough obstacles in your way. It’s no surprise you might feel…”

“No, no, it’s me who’s sorry. And I lied – of course I know why you were in the dream. It’s because I don’t want to let you down, Jim, I don’t want you to give up on me. And… oh, I’m sorry, man, it’s wrong of me to lay this on you now. Jesus, how pathetic am I? It’s just, I had to tell you, man. It’s left me with this weight in my chest, I just feel so goddamn sad and down.” 

He gestures at the papers strewn all around him, 

“You know, this is how it was in the dream - all my work just scattered on the floor, and you just walking away. It’s all worth nothing, all for nothing. I feel like, I dunno, like I’m going out with a whimper.”

He feels his coffee cup being taken from his hand and the couch flexing as Jim sits down beside him, a warm arm across his shoulders.

“Don’t ever feel that, Chief. Never again, do you hear, never again will that happen, I promise you…..” Jim hesitates and then clears his throat. “But that’s all in the past, anyway. And you have all your life in front of you. You are a brilliant man and you have a brilliant future in store.”

Blair looks at him sharply, hearing Jim’s shorthand for a catalogue of mis-steps by them both.

“What do you mean, ‘all in the past’?”

Jim pauses for a moment before answering.

“Because you’ll have new things to move on to now, Chief. I understand that.”

Blair grips his arm tightly.

“What if I don’t want to move on, Jim?”

They stare at each other for a moment. Then Jim clears his throat again.

“Look, I shouldn’t be saying this now because this is such an important day for you and you may have many things to think about in the coming days and weeks…”

Blair gives his arm a warning shake.

“Yeah, okay, it’s just… you’re not the only one to have anxiety dreams about all this, Chief. And I’m only telling you now because you seem hurt about all this and I hate to see you hurt. So believe me, Blair, when I say that however today turns out – whether you win or lose - matters not one little bit to me, or to us, as far as I’m concerned. And that I’ll support you in whatever you decide to do. But if I’ve still got a place in your life, then… well, what I mean is, I really want to have a place in your life. Still.”

Blair takes a deep breath, and feels his chest relax. The pain has gone. The man next to him is looking at the floor with intensity. Blair takes his hand and gives it a squeeze.

“Hey, let’s say the two of us go kick this day’s ass into touch?”

Jim smiles at the floor.

“Sounds good to me, Sandburg.”

 

_++Fin++_


End file.
